


looking elsewhere for miracles

by feeltripping



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Collars, Dom Clarke, F/F, Hand Feeding, Oral Sex, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Semi-Public Sex, Shower Sex, Sub Lexa, Vaginal Fingering, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 02:22:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9636614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feeltripping/pseuds/feeltripping
Summary: Clarke has never been religious but--there is something, in the way she feels about Lexa, in the life they’ve created together. Something sacred in their quiet life where they have the luxury of waking up early to love each other and weave flowers in in their hair and eat fresh fruit under the sun.Prompt fill for several prompts on tumblr, the main one being a large scale power exchange/play between Clarke and Lexa. However, it is also toothrottingly floofy.





	

**Author's Note:**

> not beta-ed

Clarke wakes Lexa up by sliding a hand up from Lexa’s upper calf around her knee and tracing her nails up Lexa’s inner thighs. Lexa’s eyes flutter open, blinking at the ceiling on her back, Clarke pressed warm against her side. She licks her lips and Clarke bends to drag her teeth against Lexa’s throat, feeling her swallow and shiver. “Sshh,” Clarke coos, licking down to Lexa’s collarbones. The tip of her index finger curls, teasing at Lexa’s entrance, and Lexa shivers again, a tiny choked off whimper escaping while her legs part farther. 

“Clarke,” Lexa sighs. Clarke rolls her wrist, soft and easy, and feels Lexa, warm and getting wetter by the second, slick silk against her fingertip. 

“Mm,” Clarke hums. She licks, sloppy, at the dip of Lexa’s throat, then blows a cool stream of air across it. “I woke up early, and I got bored waiting for you.”

“A marvel,” Lexa manages, her voice hitching high and breathy. “Anything that gets you up before the crack of noon--” Clarke slips in to the base of her knuckle and Lexa loses her teasing in a moan, rumbling in her chest. Clarke kisses her slack mouth, chapped lips, feels the barest dazed flicker of her tongue, still a little drowsy, sleep hazy mind. Clarke’s hair tickles her and her nose wrinkles, very faintly, at the prickly sensation. Clarke teases her, barely wiggling, looking down the gently undulating waves of Lexa’s naked body and waiting until sweat starts to bead and Lexa’s making quiet pleading noises before giving her another finger. 

“You just looked so pretty,” she continues, like it hasn’t been long minutes of nothing but their shared breathing and soft wet noises, the sunbeams growing on their bedspread, early morning birdsounds outside their closed windows fading into muted traffic. “Lying there with your messy hair and the sheet tugged down.” She kisses the tip of Lexa’s left nipple, then sucks it against her teeth, hard enough Lexa arches up. Her thumb presses against Lexa’s clit, then circles, her fingers moving more quickly. “Will you come for me, pretty girl?”

Lexa shudders. She whines through her nose, then smiles, sudden sunshine, brilliant clarity. “Clarke,” she says, her tongue curling against her teeth, her eyes impossibly clear and deep. She exhales once and comes, eyelashes dark and long against her cheeks and her head thrown back, her neck defined in clean lines, the cut of her jaw in sharp definition. Clarke stills to feel her flutter and clench, then withdraws, pressing another kiss to the corner of Lexa’s mouth to soften the loss. 

++

Clarke makes the bed. “Babe,” she calls into the attached bathroom, “come on.” The shower squeaks off and Clarke drags a comb through her own hair, absent mindedly braiding it back.

Lexa pads out naked in a cloud of vanilla scented steam, Clarke’s fresh mark on her collarbone flushed dark purple, red flecked at its edges. Clarke pauses to admire it, a frisson of want sparking in her belly. Lexa arches a knowing eyebrow and smirks, just a little, tipping her head back and very slightly jutting her chest out. 

“Pretty girl,” Clarke murmurs, fond. She tugs Lexa closer for a kiss, mint fresh and shower damp. Lexa leaves water droplets on her clothes when Clarke breaks away. “But that’s not the game.”

Lexa’s eyes flicker down, acquiescing, and Clarke can almost feel it, the power shifting between them--the trust. Her breath catches. She drags her nail across Lexa’s hipbone, looking at the raised red trail it leaves. She does it twice more, arcing and swooshed, goosebumps forming around them, before Lexa finds her voice. “Miss,” Lexa rasps.

Clarke kisses between Lexa’s breasts, the bird bones in her chest. Lexa’s heart thrums under her lips. “Good girl.”

++

Clarke picks clothes that are just a shade outside of what Lexa would pick for herself. Lexa has shown a distinct trend of late for dark subtle colors and blazers and slacks, button shirts with high collars and tailored vests--Clarke teased her, just last week, about lesbian power suits and lifts in her black shined boots. But she still has her other clothes, pastel skirts and floral blouses, and Clarke lays it out on the bed while Lexa leans up against her back and noses under her ear, humming absently. 

Clarke dresses her. Silk panties, a shade between peach and pale pink. Feeling the slim dip of her ankles and the hidden flex strength of her legs, abruptly paler at mid-thigh, the creases at her hips. Feels the gentle slight weight of Lexa’s breasts against the inside of her fingers and the cup of her palm, nipples pebbling faintly. Lexa’s hands on her shoulders when she kneels to draw the skirt up and smoothing the line of it, the metal whisper of the zip. Lexa’s torso disappearing slowly button after button. The hot waves of her gently curled hair against Clarke’s wrist and the hiss of the curling iron. Lexa statue still and face tilted into the light and Clarke blowing gently across her eyes as the final touch. Lexa’s lips against the inside of Clarke’s wrist to blot the colour. 

++

Sometimes Clarke can hardly believe her life is real. A Saturday morning, just a shade before noon, and the breeze is sweet and clear and clean, the sun shining; Lexa’s hand is in hers. Just half a step behind her, her arm pressed against Clarke’s. The farmer’s market is bustling and Lexa bumps up against her from behind as they weave through the crowd. Clarke almost aches with the joy of it, an ordinary day and so many more stretching ahead. She pauses at a florists booth and nudges Lexa up to the table, inclining her head to one of the bouquets on display in clear permission. Lexa breathes deep, her lips curling up, her eyes fluttering shut; she’s so beautiful Clarke has to kiss her, chaste and sweet on the apple of her cheek. She tries to hold the memory in her mind, this exact moment, Lexa’s eyes on hers and the happy glint in them, the way she sighs and sways when Clarke applies the gentlest pressure to her wrist.

Lexa eats the sample strawberry from Clarke’s fingers, pinking in the face when the stall owner coos at them. Clarke buys an orange and leans against a building just out of the way to peel it, Lexa tucked possessively against her side and under her arm. It makes a wet sound when she peels it into halves, squelching, and the juice drips from her fingers. She feeds Lexa between bites, Lexa quiet and almost demure as she waits patiently, her chin on Clarke’s shoulder. 

When they’re done Clarke slips two juice soaked fingers into Lexa’s mouth and Lexa suckles until her nose wrinkles at the sour bite of the peel remnants on Clarke’s skin. “Hungry?” Clarke asks. Lexa’s throat works for a moment before her expression smoothes out. “Good girl,” Clarke hums, crowding Lexa up against the rough wall. She kisses under Lexa’s jaw, feels her heartbeat rabbit. She sets her teeth on it, her words faintly muffled. “So good. You can answer.”

“Yes,” Lexa murmurs. Clarke pulls back and arches an eyebrow. “Yes,” Lexa edits, “I’m hungry.”

Clarke worms her hand to the small of Lexa’s back, hidden by the wall, and untucks her blouse. She feels the bottom of Lexa’s spine, the tight band of Lexa’s skirt. She presses her nails in until Lexa hisses softly. Lexa’s throat works again and Clarke growls, very faintly, warningly. Then she pauses, easing the pressure. She feels for the indents in Lexa’s skin and strokes them gently, soothingly. “Red?”

Lexa frowns. Her face flickers and her lip draws between her teeth. Clarke waits, patient patient patient. Lexa goes limp, sagging against the wall, and Clarke catches her, gentle. “I’m hungry,” Lexa repeats, her voice rasping low and graveled, her eyes gone hazy clouded. “I’m hungry, Miss.”

++

Clarke finds a restaurant they’ve never been to, walking up and down the street and pausing twice at stalls--she’s got four autumn oranges in her purse and there’s long stemmed jasmine woven delicately through Lexa’s hair and held fast with pins. 

Lexa’s wrist is slender in the circle of her fingers and the waitress lets them pick the small booth in the back, the restaurant sparsely populated. The hostess goes to hand Lexa a menu and she slides her gaze to Clarke. Clarke’s breath hitches. She fumbles to reach out. “Thank you,” she says, flashing a quick smile. Lexa’s shoulders are drawn up a little and Clarke leans back. She lays an arm on the back of the booth. “Come here.”

Lexa slides close in a heartbeat. She exhales, the tension sliding away. Clarke picks up a water glass and holds the straw steady; she watches Lexa’s lips purse, her throat swallow. “Okay?”

Lexa nods. When the waitress asks for their order Lexa is still looking at Clarke, eyes dilated, expression faintly dreamy. Clarke orders for them and plays with the flowy hem of Lexa’s skirt under the tablecloth, tracing patterns on the inside of Lexa’s knee, teasing up higher and higher in little circles. Lexa makes a quiet noise, breathy; her knees part. 

The food comes and Clarke smoothes her skirt down. Bread and cheese platter, fresh fruit, pita chips, hummus. She feeds Lexa, Lexa waiting patiently until Clarke nudges her slightly before dipping her head to Clarke’s fingers and taking each bite, lips brushing, faintest graze of her teeth. When most of it is gone, Lexa shifts in place. A frown tugs at the corner of her lips. Clarke avoids her gaze on purpose until Lexa huffs, then smiles, nuzzling into Lexa’s neck and biting sharply for a quickbeat second before drawing away. “You can speak.”

“Can I--” Lexa fumbles. She blinks, rapid, then looks around the restaurant, a frown line deep between her eyebrows. Clarke links their fingers, anchoring. She means to ask Lexa for her colour, maybe pet at her a little, soothing; she’s surprised when Lexa slouches a little, legs spreading. Clarke cups her, awkward and not ideal through the fabric, but it’s enough to apply pressure, twisting her wrist so her palm grinds down. It’s not anything close to what Lexa would need to come, but after almost two minutes, her hand starting to cramp, Lexa is boneless and quiet against her side, eyes half lidded and breathing gently.

“Colour,” Clarke murmurs, right in her ear.

Lexa takes almost fifteen seconds to answer, but when she does it’s calm and even, drifty in the way Clarke knows she likes. “Green,” she says, and licks at her lips a little. “Can I go to the bathroom, Miss?”

“Yes,” Clarke says, standing and extending her hand to help Lexa up. “Good girl.”

 

When they stand to leave, the bill paid and the waitress waved away, Clarke crowds up real close and whispers, against the shell curve of Lexa’s delicate ear, “I can smell you.” Lexa’s legs buckle, just for a second; her gaze stutters.

++

Clarke exhales when she shuts their apartment door behind them. “It’s fun,” she says, tugging Lexa close to mouth at her jaw. “For a while, I guess. The showing you off part, anyway. But...” She trails off.

Lexa smiles at her, faintly hazy still, and Clarke pulls her to the couch to settle in Clarke’s lap, knees on each side of Clarke’s legs, their torsos pressed together. Lexa sways towards her, then pauses, looking at Clarke for permission. She blinks, rapid. She sighs and slumps, mouthing at Clarke’s throat, nosing at the collar of her shirt to kiss at her chest before sliding the dampheat of her tongue and lips over Clarke’s breasts, through the fabric. She suckles for a moment, then sits up, leaning their foreheads together. “Clarke,” she says, and her voice is almost hoarse.

Clarke runs her hands up and down Lexa’s sides. “Okay? It was a lot.”

“Mm,” Lexa agrees. “Like you said, it’s fun. Once in awhile.” She rocks, then looks at Clarke through her lashes, head tipped to the side, faint pout around her lips. “You promised.”

“I did,” Clarke agrees.

++

Lexa actually moans when Clarke settles the collar around her throat, tugging at the ring playfully. She kneels on the floor with her back bowed and her hands held carefully behind her back and kisses the inside of Clarke’s knees, one then the other, reverent. Her nose skims up Clarke’s leg, her breath warm and tickling, making a grumbly noise when Clarke’s skirt gets in the way. Clarke hikes it up; she slides her hands into Lexa’s hair and crushes the flowers in her palms as she guides Lexa to where she wants her. 

Clarke can smell the jasmine; she can smell herself. She breathes Lexa’s name and falls apart under her tongue and her lips and the way Lexa pauses to say her name like she’s desperate for the way it tastes in her mouth.

++

Lexa is so wet that Clarke doesn’t know if she even feels the small vibe go in. They kiss for a while--longer than Clarke meant to, but who could resist Lexa like this, flushed and smiling, swollen lipped and gently heaving chest, naked and collared and almost bratty, the way she smirks when Clarke leans in close. And just. Just Lexa. The scatter of dotted white scars on her left shin, her double jointed right elbow. The place below her ear that makes her make that hitched off choked moan Clarke loves, the one curl of hair that always wisps out of her braid. The way she says Clarke’s name, a million variants and always brand new. 

“How do you want it,” Clarke asks her, breathless and unable to stop smiling. “You choose, my good girl.”

 

Lexa ends up on her stomach, head pillowed on her elbow, propped up on the arm of the couch where she can see into the kitchen. Her hips twitch against the sofa when Clarke thumbs the vibe on low. Clarke makes grilled cheese the way she likes them, white bread and Kraft singles and in the pan until it toasts golden. She dallies, dawdles. Preps and does dishes and cleans counters until Lexa yelps a little in the way Clarke recognizes as her first orgasm. She cooks and then cuts the sandwiches into small triangles and licks at the goop of cheese on her thumb. Lexa’s noises ratched up suddenly--then go abruptly silent for a few long seconds before her moan rumbles out again. Clarke walks over to the touch, balancing her plate in one hand. “Feel good?”

“Mm,” Lexa manages, her hips trying to twitch up and away, hypersensitive and eyes rolled back in her head. 

The vibe strings with Lexa’s slick when Clarke slips it out, silent. It’s warm in her fingers, wet, and Lexa’s mouth opens obediently to take it in, Clarke’s palm holding her jaw shut while she sucks it clean. 

Afterwards, tossed aside to be cleaned more thoroughly later, Lexa kneels, her weight leaned against Clarke’s legs, nose against Clarke’s thigh, eyes half shut and her mouth slack enough to accept bites from Clarke’s fingers.

++

Clarke puts Lexa’s collar away. They shower together, fingers in each other’s hair, Lexa coming back to herself in time to press Clarke against the wet tiled wall and finger her until Clarke begs in broken pleas and comes with Lexa’s mouth against hers, sagging until Lexa catches her and holds her up on her own two feet. 

Lexa’s still soapy when they clamber out, doing a poor job of drying themselves, almost touch starved in the way they can’t quite stop touching each other, breathless laughter when they trip over their tangled feet and fall into bed. Shivering until they yank the covers down and huddle beneath them. Clarke combs out Lexa’s hair, works out the knots with her fingers while Lexa traces patterns in the small of her back. 

“My mom wants to have lunch tomorrow,” Clarke says, her head pillowed on Lexa’s belly, in the cradle between her hipbones. 

Lexa makes a grumbly noise of agreement. Her finger traces the curve of Clarke’s ear, the nail scratching gently just behind it. Clarke’s eyes are heavy. “I love you,” Lexa says, steady. Clarke remembers the first time she said it, the way Clarke’s heart leapt like a wild thing. 

“I love you,” she replies. They’ve said it a hundred times before; Clarke is sure they’ll say it a hundred times again. It feels ordinary now, the way they’ve settled into each other; utterly domestic. And still, always, it is most precious. Lexa is warm against Clarke’s front; their fingers are tangled. Lexa’s toes are resting against Clarke’s calf, Clarke can feel her breath puff across her cheek. 

Clarke has never been religious but--there is something, in the way she feels about Lexa, in the life they’ve created together. Something sacred in their quiet life where they have the luxury of waking up early to love each other and weave flowers in in their hair and eat fresh fruit under the sun. They are, Clarke thinks, so completely, dully, utterly ordinary.

**Author's Note:**

> hello tis I. sorry I haven't been able to write much. I do have a few vague thoughts for longish smutfic, if people would be interested? but work and school and life are all bonding together to form the megazord bane of my existence. 
> 
> let me know what you think and catch me on tumblr @ feeltripping


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